Everybody Hurts
by Corky the Quirk
Summary: This is just Charlie's shell.


**Author's Note:** Random Charlie angst/smut stuff...

**Disclaimer:** I don't own Dead Poets Society

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Charlie Dalton doesn't purposely go for virgins. He purposely goes for anything. The girl he's currently with just happens to be a virgin. He's not singing praises about getting to pop her cherry, because frankly he doesn't care. But he's not going to turn an opportunity to fuck somebody down either.

They've been parked at Lover's Lane for a few moments, and it's clear the girl is having second thoughts. She keeps looking at the other cars, some rocking more violently than others, and her hand keeps popping up to her mouth so she can obnoxiously chew on her thumbnail. Charlie's just sitting there, one arm slung across the length of the front seat, staring out the front window and into the darkness that surrounds them.

He should be comforting her, letting her know everything will be okay and he won't hurt her. But none of that is true. Nothing will be okay; ever. And he is going to hurt her. Girls get pain. It just so happens to work that way. Not his fault. Not his problem. Although, all physical aspects aside, he probably should be worrying about how emotionally damaging this is going to be for her, since he has no intents to stay with only her. Hell, maybe he'll find another party even later in the night. Drunk girls are sloppy, but they're also easy to sneak away from once they're passed out.

After a few more minutes of the girl internally debating, she opens her mouth to speak, but Charlie isn't interested in what she has to say, especially since he's almost positive it was going to be rejection. He leans over and presses his mouth against hers, hard, not wanting to let a single syllable slip past her lips. The girl stiffens, aware of the fact that Charlie is only looking for one thing right now, and knowing it's not the same thing she wants. But Charlie coaxes her, with his hands, his tongue, the way he shifts so that his closer and closer until he has her pressed flush against the seat and he's hovering over her.

He breaks the kiss only so that he can reach down and physically move her into the easiest position for front seat sex, placing both of her feet on the dashboard. She's licking her lips nervously and beginning to glance sideways out the window again, so Charlie leans in and kisses along her throat, instructing her to hold herself up with her elbows propped on the back of the seat. She does as he says, and a small groan rises in his throat when she brushes up against him.

To keep her calm, he brings his lips back to hers and reaches down to undo his pants. The familiar sound of a zipper and she tenses again. This time Charlie's groan stems from annoyance rather than want. He kisses her softly as he slips his hand over her knee and up her leg until he's got his finger hooked around her lace panties. She knew what she was getting into, clearly. He tugs them down far enough and then scrambles at his own briefs, where a tent is rapidly being pitched.

He doesn't warn her when he finally goes in for the kill, figuring it's better to not know when the pain is coming, play it out like the removal of a band-aid. Quick, getting it over with. She lets a small cry and pulls away from Charlie's kisses, so he stops, although he's already fully inside of her. Their breathing is mingled and shallow, and Charlie gulps back the need to make some caustic remark. She just leans her head back, biting her lip and closing her eyes, whimpering every few seconds until the pain ebbs away and she looks him in the eye again.

She's already fucked. If a doctor was asked to check, as was becoming ever more popular among parents, she'd be even more screwed. So she nods her head, the universal signal to keep going, and squeezes her eyes shut as Charlie moves in and out, in and out, in and out. He's kissing her again as the pain flares, but the kiss holds no promises of love, of caring, of even just like. It's just a kiss for kissing's sake.

She begins to feel a small buzz rise up inside of her, but before she can fully discover it, fully taste it, fully flesh out what exactly it is, Charlie's already come, panting against her collarbone, which he bites down on viciously, intending to leave a mark. He seems to limply rest there for a second before maneuvering his way back to the driver's seat, and she lowers herself back onto the passenger side, running her hands over the fabric of her underwear before squirming them back into place.

Charlie doesn't bother to adjust his pants as he assumes the same stance as before, arm hanging over the seat, eyes glued to the nothing in front of them. He sighs, although it's not necessarily a sigh of content or satisfaction, and then proceeds to tuck himself away.

Once he's ready, Charlie shoves the key back into the ignition and shifts the gear into reverse. She does her best to ignore the motion of the other cars as they leave, but she can't seem to shake the dirty feeling that's fallen around her.

Charlie Dalton was once the perfect gentleman. He was smooth and knew how to charm a girl right out of her clothes. Nowadays, and ever since that last half-year that he'd attended Welton, he's not the smooth operator. He's the slime ball that all of the girls love to hate, but hate to miss out on.

Which is probably how he gets away with dropping her off at her house, not even a good-night kiss to be had, leaving her to stand on the sidewalk choking on the exhaust he leaves in his wake.

This is not the Charlie Dalton that everyone rolled their eyes at but put up with, knowing deep down he was a good guy with a golden heart. This is just Charlie's shell. There's no longer something deep down or inside of him, because he's simply stopped caring.

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**Author's Note:** I kind of like this version of Charlie...although that seems really wrong...


End file.
